


The Unnamable

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: While writing Bono an email, Edge winds back the clock.Set in recent times.





	The Unnamable

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a photograph Edge took of Bono that came to light recently. If you haven't seen the photograph, you must. It's on tumblr, and it's amazing. This got rambling, and I wrote it in one sitting, but it was so much fun, and I hope you all enjoy. I was inspired by PJ's latest, as well as likeamadonna's The White Room, where stories are being told through certain means. READ THEIR WORK IF YOU'VE NOT (but I cannot imagine why you wouldn't have already!!!!) Oh, and title inspired by Samuel Beckett ;)

Bono,

I have something important to tell you. Why not call, you ask? Well, hear me out first, and then you can decide whether or not you want to talk to me. Tonight. Anyway, my important thing. This is going to be a long one, I think, and already I'm sorry. But I hope you'll enjoy it. 

You were twenty six at the time. In regards to your body, at least. But your mind, and your spirit, B—your soul, the very essence that is you—if, back then, I had thought to cut them low at the trunk, the number of rings I might have found would probably have surprised even you. Especially you. Do you remember what B.B. King said to you, after looking at your lyrics? Of course you do. Knowing you, knowing how you idolized that man, I would think it likely that every single interaction with him has been stored away in a special folder in the back of your mind. Its label? _Important memories of B.B. King, from playing with him on stage to that one time he offered me half of his sandwich—do not delete!_ You know it’s true. We both know I’m spot on. The creation of that special folder no doubt involved the deletion of another folder, where some ~~important~~ insignificant information had once lived. What sort of information? Parallel parking? Parking in general even? Who knows. Sadly, I’ve never quite been able to figure out how to look inside your mind without doing some rather problematic and serious damage to your body. It's a body that you seem intent on trying to destroy anyway, so part of me wonders what’s stopping me, really? I wonder this for a few reasons, those of which are:

  * cracking your mind open is something you’ll eventually do anyway
  * I would be far, far gentler than any attempt you could and would make, and in doing so I would at least _try_ to keep the damage to a minimum
  * my thing would be in the name of science. Because that mind needs to be analysed so that future generations can discuss it at length in university/casual/futuristic dinner table settings. I would think there would be much appreciative murmuring at the tail end of such discussions, though given how polarizing you’ve proven yourself to be, there would likely also be some, how should I say this, colourful name calling? Wanker, eejit. You’ve heard them all, I know. And I know some hurt you, even if there are a few that you agree with. Dipshit is the one I heard most recently. That one at least has a certain character to it, though you know my feelings on the matter. If I ever put someone in the ground, B, it will no doubt be in defence of you. I mean, there must be a limit on how many times a man can hear someone dissing their best friend before they snap. Don’t you think? . . . though it’s got to be pretty high, I would imagine. Maybe in the tens of millions. Because after all I’ve heard about you, after all these years, I’ve still not reached that limit. (but we must be getting close, especially after daring to infect everyone’s phone and possibly even the known universe with our !free! album).
  * I got a bit carried away, that last bullet point. There was a point I was trying to make there, though reading it back I’m not exactly sure what that point was. I think the dipshit incident is still sitting sore. I know it didn’t bother you, but it bothered me. It always bothers me.
  * Okay, this entire section has completely lost sight of the point I was trying to make, and I should have stopped a bullet point and a half ago, but I’m just throwing this last one in because I know it’ll make you laugh. Because you deserve to laugh, B. Why? I could list a few reasons. How would you feel about this entire thing just consisting of, like, 90% bullet points? Page after page of rambling points that even I can’t keep track of, starting with your mind, continuing with your laugh (and the first and last of those points, RE the reasons why, would be because I love to hear it. That’s right, I’m taking claim of two more bullet points. You always tell me I’m not a selfish man, B, but when it comes to you? I could list a hundred ways in which I am completely and utterly selfish. I could even do it in bullet points. Are you laughing yet?)



 

I think it best for me to move on from . . . whatever I was trying to prove. There was a point. I think. Who knows—but if anyone could read through my bullshit and find some truth, it would be you. You and that mind of yours. Often I hear you raving about my mind, and I’m not going to argue here whether I think such praise is merited (though you know how I feel, and I know how you feel, and yes, I’ve heard the thoughts of so many others, and yes I still think of myself as just a mere mortal. Fancy that) but, I mean, you and your own mind, B. They deserve so much of that attention. And I know you’re modest, oh so fucking _modest_. . . ha ha. . . but you’re brilliant, alright?

By now I’m sure you’ve caught on to my little secret. You think you know me so well, don’t you? And you would be completely right in thinking that. I have indulged this evening. Only a couple of glasses though. I swear. (I’m lying). You can’t prove that it was any more than a couple, so don’t even try, though I will say thank god for spellcheck, or autocorrect, whatever it is, because without that, this would be even more of a mess than what it is. And we couldn’t have that now, could we? So right, I’m a little pissed, and I can hear you from an ocean away, bitching because I didn’t think to invite you to the party, and you would be even more upset to know that this little party I’m having involves me and only me. Full of wine in an empty house. Just how you like me. Though sometimes I suspect that you like me every which way I come, though then I think to myself _don’t be ridiculous, there must be some parts of me that make him crazy._ Of course, there are two different ways of making you crazy, B, but in this scenario I mean the kind where you sit there glowering at me until you can’t take it any longer and a) walk out knowing that if you stay a scene will be made, or b) you make that scene, loudly—and god, you do that so well sometimes, don’t you baby? Sometimes it’s warranted, I’m sure. But you know I just can’t help myself, right? I’m not trying to piss you off (not most of the time, anyway) when I want to, no, HAVE TO keep on working on the songs, the album, the whatever it is I’ve found to tinker with—though you never complain when it’s you I’m tinkering with. I can’t imagine why. Could it be you _like_ it, B? I’m starting to suspect that’s the case. Ha.

. . .

B, I just scrolled back up and skimmed what I’ve written so far. It’s tempting to delete it all and start fresh. Maybe even start on a day when I’m clear minded and have less than a couple of drinks in me (because that’s all it is, I swear). But I won’t. Because if nothing else, I know this all will make you smile. Or laugh. I hope it’ll make you laugh. It’s not why I started this whole thing, I swear! I did actually have an incredibly touching point I wanted to make, and the idea was that you would read that incredibly touching point and be touched as you read it as well as next week, next month, maybe even next year. Maybe longer. It might even have been one of those things you would save on your computer, because after all this time I think the folder in your brain labelled _Edge_ is close to overflowing, and certainly does not need anything this substantial to push it over the edge (you know, sometimes I wish I’d ended up with a name that wasn’t a fucking noun . . .). And on those days when you really needed it, when there was little else that could cheer you up, you might have thought of that novella I had originally sought out to write, and you might have found it on your computer and read it through, maybe twice, until a smile was wrenched from the gloom. That was my hope. But, as it turned out, you’re getting this instead. Are you going to save it still? If you do, keep it to yourself, alright? Sober me doesn’t need to be reminded that drunk me can’t write a love letter. Sober me likes to think that drunk me is just as competent in life, and if drunk me can’t do such a thing . . .

It was supposed to be a love letter though. In essence. I was never going to call it that, and it wasn’t really meant to look like one, but in a way, that’s what it is. Don’t tell me you don’t deserve it. You’ve written so many of your own over the years. A song can be a love letter. In fact, I think it does a better job at conveying your heart than any letter. I read your lyrics and am surrounded by you. Just you. You’ve watched me listening to a playback. You’ve seen me close my eyes as I listen to you sing. There is always that half-smile on your face when I come back to the world. It’s fair to say you watch me just so you can gauge how I react to the song. But we both know it’s more than that. I don’t even have to tell you. We’ve known for what feels like a lifetime.

A lifetime. That reminds me . . .

If you’ll allow me, B, I would like to get this novella back on track. I know, I know, you were enjoying my ramblings oh so much, but we both lead busy lives, you more than me, and as such I think it’s best we don’t both spend forever and a day in front of a screen. Besides, it’s bad for our eyes. And our backs? I’m not sure how, but isn’t everything when we reach our ages?

So let’s continue. B.B. King. What was the wording? I don’t quite remember. I’m sure it’s out there. And I’m sure you remember every syllable of what he said to you that day. But he looked at your lyrics and looked to you, seeing this—Jesus, B, you were practically a kid still. You weren’t even 30—seeing the _kid_ who had written those “heavy lyrics” and it seemed incredible to him, didn’t it? Because he was looking at you in body. He hadn’t even thought to check the rings of your spirit, your soul. Though you know you’re a walking contradiction, B. See, you’ve got me saying that you have an old soul, that you always have, even when you were a kid standing in front of a legend. But that’s not always true, is it? I don’t want to quote one of your lyrics, because you’ll immediately try and rewrite it, but it’s true. Nothing can take the boy out of you. And having actually written that down, it reads as completely dirty to me, but still. It’s true. So you see why you’re a contradiction, B. You see why you fascinate me so much, don’t you? I have no doubt that when B.B. said those words to you, you lit up like a Christmas tree, because young+heavy lyrics+idol = compliment, but I remember you later, not that much later, mentioning it to me. With the tone I think all people closing in on thirty get when someone calls them young. _Young? How could they think I’m young? I’m nearly thirty, I’ve practically got one foot in the grave!_ If only they knew. If only we had known. We were kids then, weren’t we? I think we still are. (by the way, that quote? It’s not a direct quote, but I feel like Larry inspired it. Do you remember? I can still see the look on your face)

I was thinking earlier that maybe you’re like Benjamin Button. You started off with an older soul, but the older you get the more I see that boy shining through. It’s incredible. The way you’ve grown, B.

That’s not what inspired me to start this novella though. Well, it might have been part of the reason. I shouldn’t even need a reason. But I did have one. I was going through some old photographs earlier. You know, with it being suggested that maybe we should make some sort of deal about _Joshua Tree_ . . . I don’t want to say how old it is turning, because I may insist that we are still so, so young, but hearing what anniversary we have reached on such things, when the experience of recording an album doesn’t feel that long ago, in the grand scheme of things—that makes me feel kind of old. Let’s just say _Joshua Tree_ almost has one foot in the grave, shall we?

So I was going through some old photographs that I had taken around that time, having remembered that there were a few that, while not measuring up to Anton’s work on his worst day, were actually decent. My thought being that maybe we could use them somehow. For the anniversary. I’m not sure how yet. But the option is there. You might think of something. You often do. And in going through these photographs, B, I found that I was right: there were a few actually decent ones. Surrounded by crap, of course. That’s not why I’m writing this though. You probably can already guess why I’m writing this, after the mention of photographs. I think we’ve been here before. Not with this particular photograph. I don’t even think that other time was one I had taken. I think it was one of Anton’s. Not that it mattered—it was a picture of you, that’s all that was important to me. And that’s what is important this time around. Because I found a photograph of you, Bono. Just you. Taken by me.

You were twenty six. Still a kid, and sometimes I forget how lovely you were. Not that you’re not lovely now, because you are, YOU ARE. Lovely isn’t even the word I want to use here. No, there’s another, one that’s on the tip of my tongue, that my fingers are begging to write, but if I do you’ll just roll your eyes and not believe it. Like you have in the past, when I said it to you, face to face. Do you remember the first time? It couldn’t have been that long after this photograph was taken. And I knew it then. I could see how lovely you were. There’s that word again, far more innocuous in your eyes than any other word I could think to use. And yes, when I say I still see you as that now, I mean it. I’m not just pulling words out of my arse hoping it’ll get me laid. We’re way past that. The truth is far more powerful than any line I could think to make up. Here is a truth: you’re lovely now, you’ll never change from that, but when you were twenty six? Well, let’s just say there’s a reason I couldn’t hold back any longer.

I’m not sure when you had changed, but you did, in ways that weren’t quickly apparent. You had been boyish for the longest time, and I had loved looking at that boy, seriously I had. Even when you had The Mullet (see how I used capslock, like you said should be used to address. . . that?) I had still secretly drank in my share of the package you had going for you. And then one day I looked at you, and there was a man standing where you once had, no longer straight up and down and looking like you should be wearing some of your baby fat still. No, there was hard muscle there, in those thighs of yours, and just the thought kept me up some nights, doing as men do when left alone. I had it bad, Bono. You know this already. I’ve told you. How many times have I told you? Are you sick of hearing about it? It’s a story about you, I know you go back and forth regarding whether or not you make a good protagonist, but myself, I happen to think you’re pretty great.

You were twenty six. As I recall, you were reading a lot of Joyce and Beckett around that time. _These are the voices that should be remembered_ , you would say. To which I would think, _well yes, and they will be. Haven’t they already?_ But I don’t think I ever said such things out loud. I knew what you meant. And when you would look to such voices as something to aspire towards, something you figured you would never reach, I always wanted to tell you that _you don’t need to reach them, baby_ (not that I called you _that_ back then. I should have. I should have said a lot of things before I did) _you just need to be you._ You were often trying to be someone you weren’t. But you were often trying to be just you as well. A walking contradiction, right?

So you were reading a lot of Beckett at the time. Joyce too, but I think it was a little tired, even then, to quote fucking _Ulysses_ as a grand gesture for anything. To take a line of text and try and apply it to life. I don’t know. Maybe people did with _Ulysses_ back then. Maybe they do even now. Maybe you did too, and I just didn’t know. Maybe it’s just my own issues I’m putting forth here with that book. I’m drunk, Bono, so it doesn’t matter. But I remember picking up one of your notebooks one day, when you were twenty six or so. And there was this quote you had scrawled, in that chicken scratch of yours that even I can’t decipher sometimes. It was a quote from Beckett, and I don’t know why I remember, reading that quote in this notebook. It’s not important to the story of Bono and Edge, is it? But it’s stuck with me. Even if the quote didn’t (I remembered a bit of it, but I am not ashamed to say I had to look it up. That’s what the internet was made for, B). I wonder if you even remember. Clearly, at the time it must have meant something to you, given that you had written it down. But has it lingered? I’d be interested to find out. Maybe it has, and you already know what I’m about to show you, but if not, here it is:

_If only I knew if I’ve lived, if I live, if I’ll live, that would simplify everything_

You were only twenty six at the time. Twenty six, and writing down a quote that struck a chord. It’s amazing, isn’t it? How at such an age a person can already be worrying that they hadn’t lived, when they had barely even begun. I would think that quote resonates a bit differently these days. In regard to that quote and your life, the answer would be yes, threefold (because we’ve talked about this, the last time you tried to break yourself; you aren’t going anywhere. Not if I have a say in it. Not if I have to tie you down. . . your thoughts just went south at the thought, didn’t they?)

You were twenty six, reading a lot of Joyce and Beckett, looking at such quotes as though they held the answer to all of life’s questions, looking like a man and making me die a little inside each and every day that I had to stand by and not touch you. That was life back then. Doesn’t seem that long ago now, does it? But at the same time, it’s strange to think of a time when I couldn’t touch you, exactly as I wanted to.

That photograph I found. I think it was, maybe not the beginning because there were hints leading up, but it played a part in the story of Bono and Edge. I don’t remember taking it, but I remember the first time I saw it developed. The camera doesn’t lie, does it? You were looking at the camera—looking at me—with this . . .I don’t even know how to explain it. Can't think of a way to, really. A way to name that look of yours. Even now, I can't, and I've seen it enough. But at the time, I couldn’t remember ever seeing you so open in a photograph, it felt intimate. As though I was intruding on something I had no right to see. And then it hit me. Take away the camera, and what were we left with? You were only twenty six, but already you had found two people in your life to look at in such a way. Some people go all their lives not knowing what they want, and then there’s you, getting it and more from such a young age. Perhaps that’s why people call you names.

I did think I might end this novella on a poignant note, back when I had big dreams for it, but here we are. At the end. And nothing is springing to mind. I have, admittedly, drank more than a couple of glasses, so maybe that’s an excuse for such failure.  If you’d been here to share, maybe we wouldn’t be in this predicament. And then I wouldn’t have had to have written this. I could have just told you. Again and again, until you found a way to stop me. But it’s written, it’s done, and I don’t know what I’m saying in most of it, but I hope, at least, some of this makes you laugh. And when it does, can you call me? You know what? Call me anyway. Tonight would be preferable. You know why.

Edge

 


End file.
